I Don't Belong
by Skalidra
Summary: When Jason is finally arrested by the joint efforts of Dick and Gordon, he gets sentenced to Arkham Asylum. Apparently no one but him considered that locking him in Arkham, means locking him up with both his worst nightmare - the Joker - and a whole lot of people that he at one point helped put away. It's a bad mix all around.
1. I Don't Belong

Another prompt! Will there be one tomorrow? No idea; can I finish a story while I work two full days and have my boyfriend around? Hah. We shall see I suppose. Anyway, this is a request from Ilovelocust, for prompt 12, Insanity, and JayDick. It turned out more Gen than I expected, but I also fully expect to write more stories expanding on this world, and then there could be an actual relationship.

This is based on a little nudge in my head that occurred. So, there's a stretch of comics time where Jason is briefly locked up in Arkham. Which just seems like an awful idea, doesn't it? Apparently _nobody_ thought about the practicalities of that. So this is, fair warning, implies a very much not happy ending. So far, anyway. Enjoy?

 **Warnings** for: Implied torture past the end.

* * *

He knows it's going to be terrible as soon as he sees the building come into view. He's drugged, locked into a straightjacket and other restraints on top of that, but he still recognizes that spiked, gothic architecture and the gate they're passing through.

"You're fucking kidding me," he mutters, and gets a sharp jab of an electrified rod to his side in punishment for apparently even opening his mouth. He snarls instead, but he's tired, in pain, and his thoughts are a little hazy thanks to however much of that sedative they thought was necessary to transfer him out of their temporary jail.

To _Arkham_ , apparently, which is not gelling in his head. He's not _insane_. A killer, sure, but he's always known exactly what he was doing. Anger and some lingering issues from being, oh, _dead_ , are not the same as being insane. But then it's goddamn _Grayson_ under the cowl, and Dick was always too optimistic for his own good when it came to friends.

He'd bet a good portion of whatever money he's still got hidden away in various accounts that Dick really _wants_ to believe he's insane, because that would mean that he can be 'fixed.' Not that Arkham is the place anyone should try to actually get anything fixed. It's just a holding cell for Gotham's nastiest freaks, and _fuck_ , this is going to be bad.

Maybe he'll get lucky, maybe no one puts together that he used to be Robin, but he's still made a name for himself as Red Hood. A name that does not include being friends with Gotham's villains, especially a few that he's sure will remember their encounters. Black Mask. _Joker_.

 _Shit_ , is Joker currently in Arkham? He can't remember, but if the lunatic is in there then he's just all around fucked. Joker knows who he is, who he used to be, and if that gets out to the rest of the criminal population in there… Even he can't take on a whole prison at once, and everyone knows that most of Arkham's guards are corrupt pieces of shit. He'll get ripped _apart_.

He almost laughs as the truck pulls to a stop, and he's roughly unbound just enough that he can shuffle forward as he's dragged, the chain between his ankles drawing tight with every stumbling step.

Wouldn't that just be a kick in the teeth to the perfect Dick Grayson? Get him killed by locking him up in Arkham, and apparently not considering that the population of Arkham is primarily people he at one point or another probably helped put away; or nearly killed, in a case or two. Will _Batman_ get told the moment he's attacked — which _will_ happen — or will all of this get swept under the rug?

He'd bet on that second option too.

He gets dragged into the building, head hanging low just as much in an effort to hide his face as because it's easier than trying to fight the drugs and exhaustion and raise it. It must be intake they take him to, where he gets roughly strapped down into an examination chair that feels more like it's the prelude to torture. He gets measured in a dozen different ways he thinks are probably useless, poked by a couple needles that come away with thick samples of his blood, and gets his face turned back and forth as the nurses manhandle him into being able to see whatever it is that they're checking.

Weirdly enough, they don't strip him down and check all his scars and everything else, but he tries not to think too hard about it. For all he knows, getting put into the Arkham database takes a few days, and he's honestly got no idea what kind of data they collect from him. He never paid all that much attention to the intake process Arkham; once the villains were handed off to Gordon it stopped being his problem.

It's coming back to bite him in the ass now, as they drag him back up off the table and drag him off again. He _does_ know the layout of Arkham though, and he starts to drag his feet and realistically consider his fighting options when they pull him the direction of the common areas and not the cells. Because he _really_ doesn't want his first time in this place to be when he's drugged and chained up.

The options aren't great. His ankles are chained together, connected to a chain that runs all the way up to a leather buckle around his throat. It's hooked around his waist too, where his hands are cuffed in front of him. He could probably get loose from the two guards with some work, but escaping, or putting up enough of a fight to get the keys from one of the guards — assuming they even _have_ them — is kind of beyond his capabilities right now. He's still bruised and sore from his last fight with Dick too, which isn't helping that whole 'escape' option any.

Before he can come up with any alternative plan he gets buzzed through a pair of security doors and then into the main common area, which is littered with tables and couches, all of it bolted to the floor. He keeps his head low, pretends he's one hell of a lot more drugged than he actually is. The guards shift to unlock his chains, and he _almost_ reacts violently before he remembers the two security doors and the mass of villains probably in the room. He doesn't have enough hair to hide behind, not really, but he peers underneath the white fringe that nearly falls into his eye and studies who's in the room as the chains come off.

He catches sight of Poison Ivy, Harley, Mr. Freeze, and the Riddler before a sickeningly familiar voice rings out.

"Well, if it isn't my _favorite_ little bird!"

He freezes, remembers red numbers and dark metal and a _grin_ , and raises his head to find that exact same grin staring at him. He swallows, curses his own complete lack of luck, as he meets the viciously pleased eyes of the Joker, leaning over the back of one of the couches.

The chains around his ankles come off, and one guard jerks at the leather buckled around his throat and hisses, " _Behave_ ," before taking that last bit off too.

He hears the beep of the door behind him, stares at the Joker and slowly checks in with his body, trying to think of _any_ way that this doesn't end with him broken and in a pool of his own blood on the floor. The chances aren't good, and the immediate villains he can see aren't the most fantastic fighters but like this? He can't take them on when he's drugged and there's this many of them. One or two, sure, but not all of them. He just _can't_.

God he's going to fucking _murder_ Dick next time he sees him. If there's a next time.

Harley cocks her head, looking puzzled but still largely cheerful as she skips over to him. "Hi!" she says, holding her hand out like she actually expects him to shake it. At least that means that Joker hasn't mentioned the whole thing about him being Robin yet, though that's definitely not going to last long.

Joker is standing, and he tenses up and ignores Harley as he watches his own nightmares come to life. The prison-orange doesn't diminish the Joker's effect any, though it probably means that he's not in danger of any hidden weapons. A shiv at most; probably. Not that it's going to matter considering how many people are in this room. Roughly twenty-five is too many for him to deal with, and there are probably other named villains in the room but _god_ Joker has all his attention. How could he not?

"You _know_ ," the Joker comments, voice rising into ear-grating pitches and then falling into low, threatening ones, "I haven't forgiven you for ruining my punchline, little bird."

Now the rest of the room is paying attention, and he tries to memorize the exits, the layout of the furniture, _anything_ that might help him get out of this more or less in one piece.

"Mistah J?" Harley asks, all wide-eyed innocence, and Joker's grin sharpens into something that lights _fear_ in his very core.

"Oh, you remember my little bird, don't you, Harl?" Joker is leaning against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, and he recognizes that same vicious intelligence from last time he faced off with the Joker. When he payed back the whole 'beaten with a crowbar' thing. "We had _lots_ of fun together, didn't we…?" There's a deliberate pause, playing to the crowd and he _knows_ it, before Joker hisses, " _Robin_."

The shift in atmosphere is immediate and _dangerous_.

Harley is closest, and suddenly there's no part of her that even _looks_ innocent. Her eyes are narrowed, mouth curling in something like a smirk as she says, "Oh. _That_ little bird. We'll you've grown up all tall and strong, haven't you, _darlin'?_ "

He takes half a step back, and then tries one last ditch effort. "It's _Red Hood_ ," he snarls, as dark and violent as he can manage to try and make the difference clear. "You're fucking insane, Joker; guards or not, you come after me because of your stupid delusions and I'll rip you limb from _fucking_ limb."

Harley gasps, one hand clasping over her mouth, and then she's bending and leaping and his reflexes are too _slow_ thanks to the stupid drug. She does a handspring right in front of him and then both her heels are cracking into the underside of his jaw, snapping his head back so suddenly it feels like his neck might break. He topples backwards, vision going dark, and then he's on the ground on his back and she's standing over him, one hand on her hip and the other shaking a finger at him.

"Nobody calls my puddin' a liar!"

He snarls, and then his whole body freezes up when Joker is suddenly standing next to her, a casual arm thrown over Harley's shoulders. It's _too familiar_ to have Joker standing over him, too familiar to be snarling up at the psychotic clown and knowing he's probably going to die. He can't hide it, can't stop the shudder that sweeps down his spine at the thought of being subjected to Joker's cruelty, _again_.

"Easy, Harl! Wouldn't want to break the poor boy just yet." Joker's grin is too-wide, too many teeth, too-red lips and too-white skin and a nightmare even before the crowbar and the explosion. "We've got _tons_ of time, and birdie-boy here just needs a good spankin' to put him back in line!"

It's not quite the same sentence, but it's close. Terror sinks into his chest, curls claws in and won't go away, and all he can manage is to push himself a half a foot backwards and choke out, " _Fuck_ you."

Joker laughs, high-pitched, completely insane, and _dangerous_ in ways he knows too well. Then the Joker flaps his free hand, pulls Harley in against his side and gives an exaggerated wink. "Nah, not really my type there, kiddo. But hey! I'm sure _somebody_ in here thinks different. You should get acquainted, little bird, prison can be _real_ lonely sometimes." Another wink, and then Joker's turning with Harley still under his arm, commenting, "So what about _dinner_ , sweetcheeks? Are you thinking the green mush or the brown?"

"Oh, _green_ , definitely!"

He trembles a little bit, trying to swallow down the fear, but it's definitely lingering. And when other people start to get out of their seats, start to trade glances and move towards him, it brightens.

God, he's _screwed_.

* * *

He doesn't know exactly what time it is that the guards drag him to his new cell, but at least it's still dark.

He hits the ground hard, bites back on a cry of pain, and hears the door shut and lock behind him. The buzz and heavy clunk of something electrical and sturdy, not just an actual lock, which is bad news for any attempt at escape. Not that he's even really considering escape at the moment.

He'd settle for goddamn solitary, honestly, though he's not really sure that would stop the prisoners with more clout. At least it would take him out of gen pop, though, which might minimize who can take a swing at him. But the likelihood of that happening is pretty much zilch, and he has no idea how bad he'd have to lash out to get put in solitary. He's not willing to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, and it's hard to pinpoint the corrupt staff from the not-so-corrupt ones.

At least Joker didn't come back to him; not this time anyway. He's got a lot of bruises, but beyond the kick to his jaw neither Joker or Harley participated. He's not stupid enough to think that will last, but it at least helped this night. Somewhat. It's a little bit of a wake up call to see just how many of these people hate him for being Robin, and what few are angrier because of what he did as Red Hood.

He swallows down the faint taste of blood from a split lip, pushing himself to his feet and then almost swaying over to the thin, uncomfortable looking cot. He doesn't bother with any sort of undressing, and considers the temperature for just a second before reluctantly crawling beneath the sheets and single blanket. He doesn't like putting anything over him that might hinder his movement, but he'd rather struggle a bit with a blanket than freeze during the night.

He's been off the streets for a long time, but instinct and habit stuck with him. He values being warm sometimes even more than being safe.

Not that it really matters. He dozes for maybe two hours, in and out of consciousness because he's half convinced that someone's going to come through his door and try to _murder_ him, before trained senses tell him that someone else is in the room.

He slits his eyes first, catches a glimpse of familiar shadow, and debates just keeping his eyes closed and seeing how long dear _Dick_ will wait. Practicality wins out though, and he reluctantly opens his eyes and looks up, finding that exposed jaw that's not as clear-cut white as Bruce's was.

"What the fuck do you want?" he almost snarls, as he sits up. He's aching from a whole lot more than just his last fight with the Bat across the room, but tries not to show any of that. He is _not_ showing weakness to the fucking golden boy; no way.

There's a moment of hesitation, and then Dick steps forward, getting a little bit more in the way of the dim lighting coming in through the window in his door. Reinforced plastic or something, not bars. Arkham's getting smarter, bit by bit. No other window either, it's just that door, blank walls, and a toilet built into one wall that he'll take some time examining when he gets a chance and he's a little less exhausted.

"You're hurt," Dick points out, the modulator gone from his voice to leave it lighter, not as painfully fake to his ears.

He grunts something like confirmation, shifting to set on the edge of the cot, carefully clenching his hands against the metal so that he doesn't do anything too drastic. "No shit. You forget about our fight, Goldie?"

"Jason, don't—" Dick's tone is disapproving, and he's had just about _enough_ of that for a goddamn _lifetime_.

"I'm _not_ calling you 'B,' you _dick_. Jesus, anyone fucking listening in is gonna hear the difference in your voices anyway, what does it matter what I call you?" He breathes in slowly, shuts his eyes for a second to breathe through the ache in his ribs. "I'm not in the fucking mood, Goldie. Tell me what you want or get out."

But Dick can be like a dog with a bone, and that not-right jaw only clenches down for a moment before loosening again. "I didn't do that to you." It comes with a gesture towards his throat, though he's not totally sure if Dick's talking about the imprint of hands around his neck or the bruise to the bottom of his jaw from Harley's kick. "What happened, Jason?"

He debates telling Dick to go fuck himself, but satisfying as it would be it won't get him anywhere. Instead he takes in another slow breath, and slowly, holding Dick's cowl-obscured gaze, spits, "You stuck me in an insane asylum turned prison full of people that I _helped put here_ , what the fuck did you think was going to happen?"

Dick is _very_ still for a second, and then that mouth draws into a thin line and almost too quiet to be heard he says, "No one knows who you were."

Maybe it's that Dick's not the Batman that Bruce was, or maybe he just doesn't know the details of his little showdown with Bruce and the Joker, but he _should_. There's no way that Dick doesn't know the Joker's in Arkham. _No way_ he can't have at least considered what that means to him, even if he's just in here as Red Hood and not an ex-Robin.

He pushes himself to standing, looks down at Dick where he never could have at Bruce. "You locked me in here with the _Joker_ ," he hisses. "With the _fucking_ Joker. Where the hell does that fit in your self righteous bullshit, Goldie?"

At least Dick has the decency to look a little bit ashamed. "You didn't leave me with a lot of options, Jason. I _offered_ to get you help, I _wanted_ to. I still do. Say the word and I'll get you out of here and to real professionals, Little Wing. You can be in League custody instead, we can get you a therapist and—"

" _Fuck you!_ " he shouts, not caring if the noise brings guards. Dick obviously cares, if the twitch of his shoulder and glance at the door means anything.

"Jason, _please_. Let me help you."

And there's a small part of him that burns to say _yes_ , to just let Dick get him the hell out of this nightmare and maybe he can have a real family again. Maybe he can have a _place_ again. But the rest of him grinds that tiny hope out before it has time to spend. The rest of him knows with bitter, _painful_ certainty that what he is now, Dick would never accept. What this world has turned him into is past saving, and he's sure as hell not going to bare what's left of his soul to some shrink and let them try and pick apart all the ways that he's been cracked and beaten down over the years. How could anyone ever understand the _hell_ he's been through, let alone what he had to do to himself to survive it?

He bites down on the urge to tell Dick that leaving him here will _get him killed_ , or that being face to face with his nightmare when he's not in complete control of the situation is _terrifying_. He can't stomach admitting his fear over the fact that the whole asylum now knows who he used to be, and that he's locked in here and all but helpless against them and that shakes him in ways that nothing else has in years. He's been furious, in so much _pain_ he didn't know how he could get through another day, but fear like this? He made it a point to _never_ be in a situation where he was this terrified.

So he just bares his teeth, clenches his hands to fists and hides all of that fear away behind anger. "You can't keep me here," he spits, and god it fucking _scares_ him when Dick's jaw tightens and he heads for the door. "I'm not insane." He says it at Dick's back, knows what's behind his words isn't getting through. "Can't you fucking hear me?! I'm _not insane!_ "

The door opens with that same electronic click, and his breath comes a little short as Dick just walks through without even looking back. He jerks forward, slams his fist against the door as it closes again, as Dick finally looks back at him and even behind that cowl he can read the pity.

"Don't you leave me here!" he shouts at the window. "Damn it, you _can't_ just leave me here!"

But Dick does. Walks right down the corridor and any more words freeze in his throat, his fist curled uselessly against the door as he breathes fast and sharp and tries not to let any more of his responses slip out of his control.

He can't afford that. Not now, not ever. Not if he's going to survive this.

Deep in his gut, he knows that he won't.

* * *

It's breakfast the next morning when that feeling becomes fact.

He's in a corner of the room, as secluded and protected as he can manage, but across the room there's a table full of all the big names in here and Joker is one of them, lounging at the head of the table. The chair is tipped back far enough that it's a miracle it's not falling over, Harley at his right hand with almost the same angle to her chair.

And the Joker, in a perfect stage-whisper that he knows everyone in the room hears, says, "I've been thinking about a little _deal_ , fellas. First one to break the little bird gets to keep him. Who's in?!"

He forces himself to breathe evenly, not to shudder or back right up against the wall or try and make a break for it. The utensil is just a stupid plastic spoon, but he grips it a little tighter anyways. Might work as a half-decent weapon if he snaps the handle; could be sharp. It's not going to be enough, not with the level of criminals sitting over there, but it's at least a tiny step up from completely defenseless.

His paranoia doesn't do him any favors, justified as it is. The guards are at least competent enough to find and take the spoon from him in a post-meal sweep through the room, and he's just thinking that this might be the hour he dies before suddenly he's being dragged off. He's never been more grateful to hear terrible news, which is that he's got an appointment with one of Arkham's in-house _psychiatrists_.

A last part of intake maybe? Or it might just be that they're getting him right into that whole 'reform' part of Arkham that never seems to work.

He's pulled off to a distant part of the asylum, shoved into a carpeted office and then into a chair that they immediately strap him into. The shrink's chair is turned away from him, with a back high enough that he can't see who it is, but he's really more concerned with the fact that the leather being pulled around him is tight enough that he's pretty sure he can't get loose. Not when he's got no tools stashed anywhere, or anything within the _inch_ or so he can jerk.

"This isn't necessary," he tries. "I'll cooperate."

They ignore him, and he tests each different restraint for any give, any weakness. There isn't one, not as far as he can find. After a few moments of silence he stops, looking around at the office for anything that might be a good weapon when this shrink's done with him.

"Look," he starts, tugging at the restraints on his wrists more just to ground himself than anything else, "I don't know what the fuck is in your files about me, or what you've been told, but I'm not insane." Silence. The chair doesn't move. If he couldn't see the edge of one crossed leg around the corner of it — female, bare skin — he'd probably think there was no one there. "I— I knew exactly what I was doing. Every second of it. I'm a killer, and I have done some really shitty things, and I am not arguing that. Yeah, I'm fucking guilty, but I'm _not crazy_. I don't belong here."

The chair spins around, sharp and sudden, and he flinches even before he recognizes the woman in it.

Harley grins, pushing out of the chair and sliding over the desk until she's right in front of him, legs dangling to either side of his. "Maybe not, darlin', but you will when _I'm_ done with you." He sucks in a sharp breath, taking in the white coat and heels she's wearing. With her hair back in a ponytail instead of the pigtails, she almost looks like a regular woman again. If it weren't for that imitation Joker grin and the _glee_ in her eyes.

He takes stock of the situation, decides it's _bad_ at about the same time that one of her stilettos lifts up and presses very purposefully into his crotch. Not quite painful, not yet, but she's clearly watching him to see how he'll react. It's with a sick, twisting jolt that he remembers that _Harleen Quinzel_ actually _is_ a psychiatrist. He is _not alright_ with being analyzed by a supervillain. Especially not one reporting to Joker.

So he bares his teeth, flexes his hands and refuses to back down from her threat. "You think a little pain is going to phase me?" he snarls. There can't be that much that she can get out of knowing that he can take a little pain.

"Nah," she answers easily, heel pulling away from him. "I just wanted to give you a heads up, birdy. The guards bribe easy, when you've got the right goods to pay 'em. Your cell, solitary, in here… Nowhere's safe for you, little bird! We're gonna _get_ you."

He tugs at the restraints, keeps his muscles strained tight as he pushes as far forward as he can and _growls_ , "There is _nothing_ you can do to me that will equal what I've been through."

She studies him, and then _laughs_. Suddenly she's slipping forward, in his lap with knees pressing into his hips, hands unerringly finding the zipper to his new uniform and pulling it down his chest. "You _believe_ that, don't you? Oh, _honey_ , you haven't got a clue the kind of imagination in this place. I'm just softening you up a bit for the main course."

Her nails dig into his stomach, and he grits his teeth and hisses through them when she rakes bloody lines into his skin. Moves her hand higher, does it again. Again. _Again_.

As she does it she talks, watching his every tiny reaction and that's even worse than the words.

"Here's what I got so far. PTSD, which was probably _mostly_ Mistah J's little gift to ya; anger management issues, which you have definitely had for pretty much _ever_ ; and from what my baby told me, you have got some _serious_ Daddy issues in there too, birdy. And then your files were just so _interesting_."

That drives him into gasping, partly from the pain of the scratches up and down his chest and partially because Harley's _read his file_. Shit, what did Dick put in there? Or is it left over from Bruce? How much is truth, how much is bullshit, what's she going to be able to _do_ with any of that information?

He jerks against the restraints, tries to push the idea of his file away because there's nothing he can do about that. "I'm not scared of you," he hisses instead, and her grin is just as vicious as the Joker's in that moment.

"Lemme tell you a secret." She leans in, and the strap they put around his fucking _forehead_ keeps him still enough that she's out of range to bite when she brushes her lips across his ear and whispers, "That's _okay_. We're gonna let the rest of 'em soften you up first, sweetie."

He can't help the shiver that slices down his spine as she leans back and giggles, now-bloody fingers starting to trace lines across his chest that he's pretty sure are words and little smiley faces. He pulls harder against the restraints, feels the leather bite into his skin a bit and doesn't even care. Not if it means the chance of getting free. But Harley laughs, smiling wide like she's gotten some kind of gift.

" _That's_ it, sweetie! Fight!" Her hands abandon his chest, grabbing both sides of his prison uniform and pulling at it. "Mistah J told me you were a raging little spitfire back when he killed you the first time! Show me! I wanna see!"

He spits in her face. The slap is totally worth it, even though it leaves him some long scratches across his cheek.

"Rude!" she gasps, and then grins and giggles. "You're so cute, birdy! You don't really think you're getting out of this, do you?"

He bares his teeth again, ignores the trickle of blood that he can feel sliding down his jaw. "I'll drag as many of you down to hell with me as I can," he promises, in a low, rough voice that he hopes comes across as threatening as he means to be.

He's serious about that.

There's not much chance of escape, no chance of victory, and Dick… He's on his own. So if he can't get out, and he's going to die anyway, _damn_ right he's going to take as many of these sick, psychopath freaks with him as he can. At least his death will mean something.

Even if he's abandoned, at least it _means something_.


	2. Things I Shouldn't Have Done

Welcome! So I was going to write something else, but I just really needed more of this world. So I cherry-picked a prompt and went for it. XD This is prompt number 38, Abandoned! Enjjoooyyy!

To my FF followers, there was a story yesterday but I didn't post it here. It's called 'Broken Bullets in a Loaded Gun' and it was co-written by me and theLiterator. There is no friendly way to do co-writing on FF, so I didn't post it here and I'm not going to. It's a good story though, and there will be a lot more of it, so you might want to go check it out over on my Ao3. It's Injustice!verse, focusing around Jason and Damian.

Anyway, **warnings** for this chapter are: aftermath of torture, reference to non-consensual drug use and torture, and uh, general unpleasantness and lots of injury?

* * *

The second time he brings himself to go see Jason, things are even worse.

To go with a black eye and a lurid bruise over his right cheek there are bruised knuckles, two fingers locked straight in a cast that implies he might have broken them. Probably on someone's face, even though Dick swears Jason is smarter than to aim for bone when his hands don't have any protection. The knuckles tell enough of a story though, and he can't argue fact when it's right in front of his face.

He hasn't heard of any deaths, so that's good news, but Jason's clearly been getting in fights. It probably wouldn't take much work to find out, but honestly, he doesn't want to know. He's got _so much_ on his plate right now and dealing with a couple fights in Arkham is just not high enough a priority for him to sacrifice everything else that needs to get done.

Tim is off halfway around the world on what might very well be a suicide mission, hellbent on finding Bruce even though everyone knows he's _dead_. Damian is slowly easing into his position but they still fight, things are bad. God, and there's the Titans, the League, and he has _so much_ to do and so little time to do it. He's ragged, feels stretched too far, and the worst part is that he knows that this was Bruce's constant life.

He might not ever measure up to that particular memory.

So when Jason startles awake, and then won't stop glaring at him, won't stop hissing little biting snaps that hurt more than they should, he doesn't have the patience to deal with it. He's too tired, too busy, and he snaps right back at Jason and only stops to feel guilty once he's gone, with Jason's bruised face and shocked expression lingering in his mind.

The third time, Jason won't talk to him. Won't look at him. Won't even react to what he manages to string together in the way of words, apologies and pleas both. There aren't any bruises to his face that time, but there's a fresh layer of them over his knuckles, though it doesn't look like he broke anything recently.

Jason stays sitting against the wall, gaze turned down and towards the blanket still covering his legs. Eventually, when it becomes clear that Jason is a long ways from even considering forgiving him, he gives up and leaves.

Months go by, and he honestly doesn't mean to leave it so long but things are hectic. Bruce might be alive after all, and that puts a whole new spin on the world.

So it's a long time before he comes back, and Jason is lying still on the cot and doesn't even push up to talk to him. This time the only injury is a split lip, but Jason is visibly hazy, unfocused even when he's clearly seen Dick.

He ends up crossing the room, sinking down to his knees and reaching out to comb Jason's hair — longer now — back from his face. Blue-green eyes watch him, somewhere between exhausted and unbelieving, but no words come.

So he breaks the silence, murmurs, "Little Wing, you've got to stop getting in these fights."

Jason's eyes shutter, forehead drawing into a small wince. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Jason's voice is a slightly slurred whisper. "Hallucinations aren't usually _jackasses_."

He pauses, combs a bit more of Jason's hair away. "I'm real, Jason. I'm here." When Jason looks at him, he manages a small smile. By the way Jason stares, it probably doesn't look right under the cowl hiding half his face. "What kind of medications have they got you on?"

Jason's shoulders shift in a small shrug. "How the fuck should I know? It's a mix."

"Tell me about the effects?" he asks, careful to keep it a question and not a command. "It doesn't look fun."

"I'm not insane," Jason murmurs instead of answering, tilting away from the fingers in his hair. "I'm _not_. How do you justify this? How do you…?" He reaches in, touches Jason's temple, and Jason flinches and jerks away, back a few inches underneath the sheets. "Don't _touch_ me."

"Jason—"

" _Don't_ ," is what gets hissed at him. "You don't get to throw me in this hell and expect us to be alright. You don't—" Jason shudders, eyes squeezing shut. "I'm _not crazy_ , Goldie. Don't leave me here. The drugs aren't— Just get me _out_."

He winces, slowly withdrawing his hand because apparently it's not welcome anymore. "I can't right now," he admits. Jason's eyes snap open, and there's sharp _pain_ in them. "There is so much going on with the Titans, and the League, and it's all fallen on my shoulders and I just don't have the time. But look, when things calm down I'll make a few calls. We can get you put through a few tests, and if the psychologist gives you an all clear we'll move you to a different prison. Alright?"

Jason draws deeper underneath the sheets, back against the wall. Those eyes close, a shudder shaking shoulders that look a little less broad at this angle than he remembers. It worries him for a moment, and he almost reaches out before remembering that he'll probably only get snapped at.

"Get out," Jason breathes, and he jerks a little bit in surprise.

"Jason, wait. When I have time—"

"Get _out_. I'm not your… your fucking pity project. I _won't_ be. Don't come back; don't you _dare_." His blood runs cold. "As long as you think I belong in here with _them_ , we're done."

"You can't mean—"

" _Out_ ," Jason repeats again, with a bit more strength to his voice. "I don't want you around, Goldie. Just go away. Let me rot in peace."

He tries to find words to argue that, but can't. He's seen too much of Jason's behavior to think it's completely sane, and without someone professional promising him that it is he _won't_ believe that everything Jason's done was done completely clear-minded. If he loses that hope, he'll lose the hope that he can save his family. That's not an option.

So he just murmurs, "I'm sorry," before he turns and leaves.

Jason doesn't say a word.

* * *

Three weeks later he gets a call.

Gordon, and the voice of the Commissioner is stern and worried when he says, "You need to get to Gotham General Hospital, room two-forty-six. Now."

He's in the middle of work on a few upcoming plans, but that tone of voice spurs him into action. He grunts a quick confirmation — now he knows why Bruce tended to communicate in grunts when possible — and then hangs up, dragging himself into the rest of the suit and heading out as quickly as possible.

He still takes the subtle way in, bringing up the layout and then finding the window to the room from outside. There's light in it, and he takes enough of a glance inside to see Gordon leaning against the wall by the door before slipping inside. Gordon looks up, but doesn't uncross his arms or push off the wall.

"I don't know what kind of relationship the two of you had with him, but it looked complicated enough that I thought you'd want to be here." Gordon's head tilts towards the bed, and he turns to look.

Freezes on the spot. Then rushes forward honestly faster than he should but to _hell_ with it, Gordon knows more about them than pretty much anyone else on Earth.

"Jason," he says helplessly, pausing at the side of the bed to actually stop and look.

Jason's unconscious, but breathing, which might just be a miracle given the collection of dark bruises scattered all over his face and the small bit of his upper chest that's visible. There's an oxygen mask over the lower half of his face, and he's hooked up to a few machines carefully recording his pulse and heartbeat. Both slower than they should be, but not dangerously so. The IV hooked into his wrist is slowly pumping in something that looks like straight blood, and a glance at the pole holding the bag confirms it.

"What happened?" he asks, looking back at Gordon.

Gordon's whole face tightens. "He was attacked. Internal bleeding, and it looks like someone involved had a knife. We haven't had the time to get a look at the security recordings yet, but they're being sent to the GCPD now. Arkham didn't have the medical equipment to save him; he lost a lot of blood."

His jaw clenches, and the mad, _furious_ part of him wants to go straight to Arkham Asylum and go after the most likely targets. Joker at the top of the list. But he breathes that part away, tightens his hands to fists and then eases them again so he can force himself to relax. Violence won't solve anything, not like this. The best information will come from those security recordings, and from Jason, whenever he wakes up.

To that end, he takes two stiff steps to the end of the bed and grabs the chart that's hanging there, looking over what they've given Jason and what information there is about the injuries. He grabs the pen beside it too, and occupies himself filling in the little bits of history and past treatment that he knows. Everything past Jason's death is mostly a mystery, but he's spent enough time staring at Jason's files in the computer to have what they do know pretty much memorized.

"Thanks for the call," he says, belatedly.

Gordon sighs, and then there's the tap of shoes until Gordon's standing right next to him. "Of course. Look, you've been visiting him, haven't you? Did anything seem off to you? Anything to suggest that there was something going on?"

He pauses, sets the chart down and turns to study Gordon. The expression on the older man's face is not encouraging. He thinks about it a bit, and finally offers, "Nothing I didn't expect. He was getting in fights. Bruises, messed up knuckles. He had a couple broken fingers one time. Why?"

Instead of relaxing, Gordon actually seems to stiffen up even further. "Fights?" A sharp glance at Jason, that almost looks worried, and then Gordon speaks again. "The GCPD is supposed to get reports of all fights that happen in Arkham, and none have come through involving him. We don't get contacted about small things, but broken fingers? At the least, that should have showed up. I think there might have been something going on behind our backs; he's got a lot of bruises that look older, and…"

"What?" he asks immediately, and Gordon meets his gaze with narrowed eyes.

"To your knowledge, did he have any tattoos before?"

Dick startles, blinks and then blurts out, "No? I— I haven't seen every _inch_ of him, but no tattoos that I know of."

"You would have noticed this one," Gordon says, voice dark and grim. "Doctors didn't give him anything, they said he had a lot of drugs in his system and they're still running tests to find out exactly what the mix is. The Arkham psychologists he had a couple sessions with didn't _give_ him any prescriptions though, not according to what they said, and there are some traces in his system that look an awful lot like fear gas and Joker venom. I think…" Gordon shakes his head, draws in a deeper breath. "My gut says there was something _bad_ going on down there. And we missed it."

"How bad?" he asks, almost fearing the answer but he has to _know_.

Gordon's crossed arms tighten a little bit. "Drugs no one prescribed, fear gas, Joker venom, and the injuries he's got, old and new? Frankly, he looks like he's been playing combination punching bag/test subject since he got in there. The one part of him not bruised? His knuckles. He wasn't fighting back; or couldn't. Either way, it's not good."

He closes his eyes, fighting not to tighten his hands to fists and betray any more of how angry he is. Or how quickly that anger is turning into guilt. Jason had nearly straight out _said it_ , hadn't he? Everything pointed to serious fights happening, and he just ignored it. Even if this weren't true, he was playing with Jason's life, leaving him in there with a bunch of psychopaths and criminals. With the _Joker_.

There's no excuse for his part in letting this happen.

"He's going to live, right?" Gordon nods, and he immediately follows up with, "Who else knows that?"

There's a pause where Gordon shoots him a sharp look. "Us, the two cops at the door, and the medical personnel who worked on him. They weren't entirely sure he was going to make it, last I heard, but were pretty confident. I'll tell you right now, I'm pretty sure he won't survive you pulling him over your shoulder and swinging off."

He ignores that remark, because honestly he _did_ think about it. "Keep it quiet," he murmurs instead. "I need to talk to him once he wakes up, and after that… If what you're thinking is right, what can we do?"

Gordon's voice is quiet, and a little bit reluctant. "I can get him put in solitary, for his protection, but honestly I don't think it would work. If something like _this_ could slip under the radar, solitary probably won't help. He could also be transferred to a different prison, but with these kind of injuries, and the Red Hood name behind him? He might not last long anywhere else either."

That doesn't leave many good options, and he doesn't… He doesn't know how bad Jason will be, when he wakes up. Assuming he does wake up. Assuming there's anything of Jason left to save, after trapping him in Arkham for so long.

"I need to make a couple calls," he manages, barely resisting the automatic urge to raise a hand and tunnel it through hair that he doesn't have exposed anymore.

Gordon's always seen more than any of them are completely comfortable with — even though at times it can be a blessing — and the older man nods. "I'll get back to GCPD and make sure there are copies of the security footage uploaded to our system. I assume one of you will want to get a look at it. Doctors said he probably wouldn't start to wake up for at least three hours, so I'll make sure nobody but nurses come in so you can stay here. There aren't cameras, but be careful anyway."

One hand clasps over his shoulder, and he barely feels it through the layers of armor and te cape but the gesture is appreciated. "Thanks," he murmurs, and Gordon squeezes and then lets go.

"Don't do anything rash," are the final words that come out before Gordon turns and heads for the door.

He can hear the faint murmur of conversation outside it, and that spurs him into some sort of action. He crosses to the window, tugging the curtain over it, and then takes a deep breath and opens a line to Barbara.

"Oracle, you there?"

" _Reviewing case files,"_ is her immediate answer, and he relaxes just a little bit at the familiar sound of her voice. " _What can I do for you, boy wonder?"_

He scrubs a hand over his jaw, tries not to feeel Bruce's touch in the rough scrub of leather and fails utterly. "Loop Red Robin into the line, please?" There's the faint tap of keys, and then the distinctive beep that lets him know Tim's been added to the call. "Red, got a little time?"

There's a moment of silence, and then Tim answers, " _It's quiet, except for these_ _ **dorks**_ _. Go ahead and talk; I'm moving rooms."_

He takes in a breath to steady himself, and another glance at Jason to fortify. "I need the security footage from Arkham, all the months Jason's been there, and any reports associated with him. I want the two of you to get ahold of it and skim through to narrow down the footage to anything with him in it. It's going to be a lot of work but I need it. Please."

" _Explanation, boy wonder."_

He winces, takes another glance at Jason. "He was attacked; he's been transferred out to Gotham General and I'm here with him. The Commissioner called me, and he's worried. There are a lot of injuries that are older than this attack, a lot drugs in his system that were never prescribed, and it looks… It looks like he might have been a target from day one." He falters, and then closes his eyes and quietly admits, "I think I messed up."

Silence.

"I know neither of you like him that much," he starts, "and _trust me_ , I haven't forgotten what he's done, but he almost died and I'm pretty sure that that's the least of what he's been through in there. I'm waiting for him to wake up so I can confirm any of this, but I need that footage. At the very least, something this big slipping under everyone's notice means that Arkham's staff needs to be gone through again. The Commissioner said the GCPD haven't got _any_ reports of fights involving Jason, and that can't be right. Not with what I'm seeing."

Babs clears her throat. " _Are you_ _ **sure**_ _this isn't a play for him to escape?"_

"You don't fake this kind of damage."

" _Batman's right,"_ Tim puts in. " _I pulled up the report from the doctors at Gotham General. If it's an escape attempt, it's a really lousy one. Even being one of us, he probably won't be up and mobile for at least a few days. More, if the x-rays they've got processing show as many broken ribs as they think there are. They did what they could for immediate danger, but if he moves the wrong way he could do a lot of damage, or he could puncture something. He's going to need at least one more surgery; maybe a couple. Depends how he heals."_

He winces — he'd never gotten all the way through the chart — and then asks, "Are the screening results in? I haven't looked all the way through his chart yet."

A beat of silence, and then he can hear Tim draw in a sharp breath. " _Jesus. No_ _ **sane**_ _doctor would pair even half what's in his system. No lethal combinations, but there probably would have been some really nasty side effects and honestly, none of this is the right mix to treat what issues we know Jason has. This_ _ **isn't**_ _the kind of stuff you give to someone with PTSD."_

A suspicion settles in his gut. "Hallucinations?"

" _Definitely. Probably very vivid ones."_

"Shit." The guilt sinks a little lower in his chest, and he looks over at Jason. "The last time I saw him, he mentioned hallucinations. Whatever's been going on, it's been at minimum three weeks. Judging by what I remember, probably longer."

" _I'll get started on the surveillance,"_ Barbara promises, with a note of steel to her voice that he's hugely relieved to hear.

" _I'll track down those reports,"_ Tim puts in.

He lets out a small sigh. "I'll stay here and wait for Jason to wake up. Try and get him to tell me what was happening. Damian can take patrol tonight, and I'll play backup if he needs it. Thanks, both of you."

" _He's still family,"_ Tim murmurs. " _No matter what he's done."_


	3. Stains That Won't Come Clean

Welcome! I actually uh, switched themes halfway through on this one. It was supposed to be a flashback, so I was writing it for 'Memory', but then it just wanted to be its own story, so I swapped it over to number 93, which is - *cough* - 'Give Up'. Read the warnings, inform yourself, this is going to be nasty. (Enjoy!)

 **Warnings** for : slight threatening of rape, referenced torture, and non-consensual tattooing.

* * *

Hands close around his wrists, dragging him from the relative safety of the cell and out into the corridor beyond. There's two of them, faces and names he recognizes by this point and he knows that means it's going to be a long night. It doesn't matter that he struggles; he's tired, weak, in pain, and it's a matter of patience and practice that gets him slammed up against the wall with both arms twisted around behind his back.

Knees press into the back of his, grinding them into the wall, as the other one clasps restraints around his ankles. It means that they more drag him down the corridor than any pretense of him walking, holding him with both shoulders twisted in and one solid hand in his hair to keep him from even trying to fight.

The final destination of the cafeteria is inevitable, but he still snarls when he sees the two other people waiting for him anyway. Harley, and one of the orderlies. Usually that means he's getting force-fed pills or in general having something done that takes a little bit of expertise. Not the worst times, but definitely nasty.

Harley, of all the people who have taken turns taking shots at him, _is_ the worst. That psychology degree makes her too observant, too pinpoint accurate at finding insecurities and exactly what unsettles him the most out of everything they've done. Pain he can take, even torture, but his head is not the most impenetrable of places and having her mess with it is sometimes more than he can handle.

If he was going to lay bets on who's eventually going to win their stupid game, it'd be Harley.

She grins and waves at him, and the two guards drag him over to the table closest to her and slam him down over it. It hurts in a dozen ways, and he hisses out a breath at the pain and then gives a small snarl as he jerks against the hands holding his shoulders down. It's a rectangular table and they've got him pinned down in the short direction, which means his head is hanging over the other side, his torso just long enough to span the whole thing.

Harley skips over as one guard leans basically all of his weight into the small of his back, over his crossed wrists, and the other moves down and disconnects the chain holding his ankles together. He immediately tries to twist and kick out, hit _anything_ that will hurt the sick bastards over him, but strong fingers are catching his ankle and dragging it out, leaving him only the one foot to balance on unless he wants to trust his weight to the guard pinning him down. He _really_ doesn't. He can't see it from the angle all of them are at, but he feels the tight tug of what he'd guess is a leather cuff over the pants of his prison uniform, and then the rattle of what's definitely the other end hooking his ankle to the leg of the table.

It's not the first time he's been tied down, and god _damn_ this place because the restraints are medical grade _and_ specific to Arkham's tendency towards people with enhanced strength. They're not impossible to get out of, but they're damn hard and he can't do it without someone noticing and, usually, threatening to break his fingers if he doesn't stop. Plus, the tables are bolted to the damn ground so there's no chance of yanking it up and at least managing some kind of escape that way.

Harley crouches down in front of him, just out of range even if he lunges forward and tries to bite her. He's managed to bite other people, stupid _morons_ who underestimated his willingness to fight, but never her. Crazy _bitch_ she might be, but she knows he's dangerous and she's frustratingly good at not giving him opportunities to hurt her.

She's smiling as she cheerfully asks, "Tired, little bird?"

His other leg gets kicked out.

"I haven't been little for a _long_ fucking time," he snarls at her, jerking against the hold on his arms again. It doesn't get him anywhere, but he doesn't expect it to. Frankly, he couldn't take two geared, trained guards in the state he's in even if he wasn't pinned down.

He'd make a damn good show of it, and he'd _hurt_ them, but the chances of him actually winning are really low. Add Harley into that mix and they drop to basically impossible. Even without all the crazy gear she'd have on her outside these walls, she's a good fighter. Fast, flexible, and unpredictable. Not as dangerous as him, on a good day. A better day than he's had since he stepped foot in this place.

He feels the second restraint buckle around his other leg, tying him to the table with his legs spread wide. He feels one sharp spike of fear as a hard hand sweeps up the inside of his leg, and his breath catches and _fuck_ he knows Harley sees it, but then the hand does the same to his other leg and he recognizes the sweep as a check for weapons. _Where_ they think he'd have gotten weapons between now and the after-dinner sweep they did just a couple hours ago, he has no idea. Shame they're so damn thorough or he might have had a better chance at actually taking any of these bastards out.

He's gotten close a couple of times, scored some _nasty_ hits, but they never go up against him one on one and he just doesn't have the strength to fight off multiple opponents at once. Not now.

"That's okay, birdie," Harley says, voice bright and still so damn cheerful he wants to hit her hard enough to break her goddamn _teeth_. "We'll make you feel that way again. It turns out we have an _artist_ among us!" Her head tilts back towards the orderly. "He's gonna give you a little something to remind you what you are, darlin'. Mistah J wanted to be here himself, but he knows he can be impatient and this could take awhile. It's gonna be a long night, little bird."

It sounds immensely _terrible,_ whatever the plan is, and he snaps, "I'm not interested in your goddamn art."

That's before the orderly shifts, and the hand down near his leg comes far enough out for Jason to see what's in his hand.

His world freezes for a second, panic sweeping sharp up his spine, and then he just _moves_. He thrashes, shouting and struggling against the guard leaning on his back, because what's in that hand is a fucking pieced together _tattoo gun_ and that is _not happening_.

Harley doesn't move, but she's too far away from him to get so he ignores it, twisting his arms and using every _single_ ounce of his skill and strength to get the hell out of the hold the guard's got him in. One of his wrists cracks in a way not entirely pleasant, but he gets one arm lose, shoves up, unbalances the son of a _bitch_ behind him.

"Not _fucking_ happening!" he shouts, swinging a wild elbow backwards and connecting with something that makes the guard grunt out a breath of pain and loosen his hold. He yanks free, twists and _claws_ for the nearest patch of skin and tears bloody lines deep enough into the guard's cheek that it gets the man to yelp and stagger back.

But the second guard lunges forward to fill the space. He can't get away from the table, not with his legs tied down, but he grapples as best he can with the guard. It's really only a couple seconds until the guard's got one of his wrists in hand, twisting his arm up behind his back. He snarls, ignores the pain in his ribs so he can shove up and stop himself from being slammed into the table.

"Down!" the guard hisses, and then a fist is cracking across his face with enough force to stun him.

He hits the table, a second pair of hands joins the first, and then he's getting dragged up again and both arms are being twisted so far back his shoulders burn, a cry of pain sticking in his throat.

"Easy, boys!" Harley says, with a kind of glee. "Nothing visible, remember? Gotta stay _quiet!_ "

" _Fuck_ you!" he shouts, when one of the guards starts dragging the prison uniform off of him, baring his shoulders and chest before they slam him back down against the metal of the table.

Harley hasn't moved, and she meets his gaze with a wide smile when his gaze snaps up to her. "It's alright, little bird. We'll take care of you, promise!"

They get the uniform down to his waist, with a couple of creative and _very_ painful holds when they pull it off his arms. He can taste blood, feel the sting of a freshly split bottom lip, and the rest of his lingering injuries aren't doing him any favors either, but right then nothing compares to the burn of his shoulders as they're strained. He breathes through his teeth, tries to twist into the hold to make it hurt a little less but it doesn't do anything.

He panics again when he feels leather cuffs tug into place around his wrists, jerking against it but unable to get free. He only realizes the cuffs aren't connected when one guard splits away, circling the table and dragging his wrist with in a circular sweep. It does at least take pressure off the one shoulder, but that's not nearly enough to stop the fear as the other end of that set of restraints gets hooked to the leg of the table opposite where his leg is held. It stretches his arm out, with maybe half an inch of give but that's only because his other arm isn't secured.

With both guards working on his last remaining limb, it only takes them a couple seconds to finish tying him down. He fights the restraints, pulling and snarling, but there's not enough give to get loose and he doesn't have the tools he'd need to slip them any other way. He could dislocate his thumb, get one hand out and then the other, but his chances of doing that without any of them noticing are pretty much _shit_. He'd be better off just _asking_ them to break his fingers right off the bat.

Harley watches him thrash for a couple more seconds, and then reaches forward and traces her fingers up one of his outstretched arms. "Relax, little bird," she murmurs past that fucking _smile_. "This is just gonna be a little reminder that you're ours. You can take a little pain, can't you, baby boy?"

He tenses up, watching the orderly move towards him over Harley's shoulder. Panic makes way for anger, for the kind of hollow fear that comes from knowing there's nothing he can do to stop this. He shudders, twisting his wrists against the restraints and feeling the hard grip of a gloved hand at the back of his neck.

"When I get the chance," he starts, quiet and _furious_ , "I'm going to tear your throat out with my goddamn teeth."

Harley, the _bitch_ , just smiles wider.

Then she looks up towards the guards above him and commands, "Gag him."

The words barely register before the hand on his neck is grabbing a handful of his hair instead, jerking his head back and up. He clenches his teeth together, but the fingers that dig into his jaw are practiced and force his mouth open without much of a problem. He can't get away from the leather bit that shoves into his mouth, or the straps that secure it around the back of his head.

"I just _love_ your noises, personally, but our artist prefers to work without too much screaming." He jerks away from the fingers that stroke down the side of his face, and she gives a small laugh. "It's alright, little bird. I'll be here the whole time, _promise_."

He can hear the guards step away, feel the heat as someone else steps right up against his legs and leans in. There's a sound like paper being set down somewhere below his left arm — a drawing, if he had to guess — and then he flinches at the whir of the gun starting up. His hands clench into fists, straining against the restraints just in case there's some miracle that can delay this a few seconds longer.

The first touch of it is to the side of his spine, between his shoulder blades, and he spits out a muffled, distorted curse around the gag. It stings more than it actually _hurts_ , but it's sharp and prolonged enough to make his muscles draw tight in reaction. The orderly draws a line to the side of his spine, just far enough off it doesn't come down on the bone, and then a second, matching one on the opposite side. From there it branches out, up to his shoulders and out along the rest of his back. It doesn't go over his spine, and that at least is one small silver lining in the whole thing.

Harley's gaze on him is even worse than the makeshift needle, especially the way she looks so damn _pleased_ every time that he winces, or makes some kind of noise. That gets more common as it goes on, and the sting spreads into an aching burn that travels out across his upper back everywhere the tattoo gun passes over. He can't keep track of the picture, but he knows it's big, knows it _hurts_ , and knows it's intricate.

It doesn't feel like letters, which at least means that they're not putting someone's name on his back, but it does leave him totally in the dark concerning what _is_ being pretty much permanently marked onto it. He can more or less handle the pain, even if it is wearing on him the longer this goes on, but the _not knowing_ … That scares the hell out of him. This is some insane joint idea of Harley and the Joker and that means it could be _anything_. It definitely tilts the scales in a direction he really doesn't like thinking about.

He shivers, flexes his hands against the restraints and closes his eyes. It's not that hard to set his breathing into a slow rhythm and manually loosen out the muscles in his shoulders and neck. He's never been fantastic at meditation, but any kind of escape he can get from this clusterfuck of a situation will be great, and he can at least manage to somewhat disconnect from his body to manage the pain. One thing he's _really_ good at is managing pain.

Until a fist cracks across his face, startling him out of it with a gasp that turns into a muffled shout when fingers curl in his hand and yank his head down and sideways. It twists his neck way more than is even remotely comfortable, and his eyes fly open to find Harley mock-frowning at him.

"Ah-ah, little bird! It's just _rude_ to zone out when someone's giving you a gift! Our artist friend is doing _such_ a great job; you don't want to insult him, do you?"

Something in him snaps.

 _Rage_ washes up his throat, and he screams fury against the gag and thrashes against the restraints, pulling and wrenching against them until it feels like his wrists might break. He calls Harley every nasty thing he's ever heard, muffled and unintelligible with the gag between his teeth, and then is reduced to just shouting and snarling at her, the table rattling with his efforts but not going anywhere. _Never_ going anywhere.

He just wants to _hurt_ her, to get his teeth or his hands on her and break her into a thousand tiny, bloody pieces. He wants to beat her until she's barely recognizable and then some more, wants to _feel_ the life go out of her with his hands around her throat. He wants it more than he can even begin to express, no matter how much he screams around the leather or how hard he pulls against the restraints holding him down. Wants it with a kind of desire he hasn't felt since his whole showdown with Joker and Bruce, but even that was never this _primal_. It was never this all-consuming fury that stopped him from even thinking past the desire to cause _pain_.

He doesn't know how long he manages to hold onto it, but eventually the last bit of that rage spends itself and all of a sudden he just slumps down, trembling. His head hangs off the edge of the table, the pain and fear spreading out through his chest now that the anger isn't protecting him from it anymore.

Fingers touch his hair and he jerks, panicking for a brief second before Harley tugs his head up and meets his eyes. She's got a small smile on her lips, and he shudders and tugs against the grip, tries to shrink back even though there's nowhere for him to go.

"That's it, sweetheart," she murmurs, stroking the fingers of her other hand across his cheek. "Just give in; just like that. Be good for Harley, little bird."

He shudders again and he's just in so much _pain_ , and it's such an awfully open, vulnerable kind, that he can feel — despite the ball of shame in his gut — tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He takes in a shaky breath, bites down on the gag for a moment and then releases it with one last shudder that ends with him limp and pliant on the table.

What's the point? He can't get away, he can't _stop_ this. He can't stop any of it.

He closes his eyes, lets his head hang in Harley's grip and his hands loosen. She gently lowers his head down, letting him go but keeping soft fingers in his hair, stroking over his scalp and god help him it's almost _nice_. One gentle touch in counterpoint to the pain over his back and the ache of not yet healed injuries.

"Continue," she says, and a moment later he feels the tattoo gun start back in on him. Lower on his back now, almost down to his waist.

Harley hums something that's almost inaudible under the buzz of the gun, something that sounds disturbingly like a child's rhyme and he tries to keep his thoughts away from figuring out exactly what it is. Just keeping his sounds locked away is taking all the power he has left; he can't spare anything to wonder about whatever Harley's chosen to hum to him.

It's not quite a trance, but he grows to feel almost numb to the passage of time and the pain. His world fades out, narrowing to the touch of fingers in his hair, the heat under his skin, and the sound of his own breath behind that ever-present buzz. It could be minutes or hours before suddenly the buzz shuts off and the room falls to silence.

He stirs, pulling in a deeper breath and slipping a little bit back to awareness as voices speak over his head. The hand leaves his hair, and he opens his eyes in time to see Harley stand and start to circle the table. Her tone of voice is pleased, cheerful again, and he shivers under the weight of the stares he can feel. The sharp wave of pain makes him gasp, as his body reminds him of all the old aches, the fact that his legs are stiff, and that pretty much his whole back _burns_.

The gag is an easy target to bite down on, venting some of that pain and trying not to move anymore than he already has. It doesn't matter that much; he's fully conscious now and the pain is back in full force. He doesn't need to move for his back to hurt, it just _does_.

He hears Harley ask the orderly to go fetch the guards — didn't know that they'd even left — and then she circles back into his line of sight and crouches down in front of him. He looks up, but can't manage anything more than a small curl of his lips around the gag that might be something like a snarl. It doesn't even begin to match the wide grin she's got, and it doesn't phase her either.

"Oh, you did so _good_ , baby boy. Stayed still just like I wanted you to, all nice and quiet." He flinches away from the hand that reaches for his hair, has to bite down again at the fresh burst of pain even as her fingers comb his hair back from his face. "It's over now, sweetheart. All done. The guards are going to take you right back to your cell and you can sleep; they'll even bring you food all tomorrow so you can recover. See, little bird? When you're good, you get rewarded."

He can't find the energy to even begin to try and combat that notion, especially because there's a traitorous little part of him that knows it's true. If he just gave in, if he let them do whatever they wanted, they probably wouldn't hurt him nearly as bad as they do. It's a nasty, invasive little thought that settles at the back of his mind, and he just doesn't have the strength to get rid of it.

Harley smiles at his lack of reaction, and then gently pats the top of his head before drawing back and getting to her feet. He watches her pad around the table, and a moment later he can hear the heavier thud of the guards' boots from somewhere behind him.

"Right back to the cell!" she proclaims with _way_ too much cheer. "Don't forget the straightjacket, boys. Wouldn't want our bird hurting himself any worse while he's healing up, would we?"

He manages a wince at that, but only puts up a token struggle when the guards free him from the restraints. It hurts so much to really fight, and he's so damn _tired_ , so it doesn't take all that much effort for them to tug him back into his uniform and then wrestle him into the confining layer of the white straightjacket. Harley is gone by that point, so is the orderly, and at least that means that no one is around to watch the guards all but carry him through the dim corridors and back to his cell.

He mostly expects to just be tossed back in, like the usual, but instead they pull him over to the cot and actually get him on it, beneath the blanket and on his stomach.

"Think that finally did him in?" one of them asks the other.

He twists his head into the pillow, unwilling to meet either of their gazes right at this second.

"Nah," the other replies, "he'll be up and raging again by tomorrow." Rough fingers undo the strap of the gag, lifting his head with one hand and pulling the gag from his mouth with the other. "Isn't that right, buddy?"

He takes a second to breathe without the blockade of the leather, and then turns his head just enough that he can spit out a hoarse, " _Fuck you_ ," up at the two of them.

The way one of them grins makes it feel counterproductive. "Not my type. Careful though, that orderly from the opposite shifts, Jeff, might take you up on it."

They turn for the door, as the other one winces. "Oh god, don't even joke. Harley and Joker would skin him alive and Jeff is not that dumb."

"I don't know, Jeff is _pretty dumb_." The door opens, and he twists his head back into the pillow and tries to get rid of the sick knot forming in his gut by just _breathing_. "What about our 'artist friend' Ron then? I mean, he's in Harley's good graces now, right? Might buy him a good time."

"Is Ron gay? I don't think Ron is gay."

"I don't think Jeff is totally gay either, I'm just saying."

The door closes.

He lasts about another two seconds before his breath catches hard in his throat, and he preemptively bites down into the pillow to muffle any noises. The tears come just a moment later, burning out of the corners of his eyes, and his shoulders shake with the restrained sob that follows.

Permanent. It's _permanent_.

Whatever the hell is on his back, it's never coming off. He's going to have whatever mark they've decided to give him for the rest of his _life_ , even if by some miracle he does end up getting out of this hell. He's _never_ going to be able to get it off of him, never going to be able to wipe the memory of this place from his skin.

God, it's _never coming off_.

* * *

A note, before anyone says anything. It actually is possible to get tattoos removed, with quite a few sessions of 7-weeks-apart laser surgery. It basically breaks down the ink in the skin so the body can reabsorb it, and usually will either remove it entirely or at least lighten and fade it out quite a bit. However, side effects sometimes include scarring, unusual skin discoloration, and it works by literally burning it away, so it is _very_ painful. It also doesn't work as well over scar tissue, which Jason has lots of.

So it is possible he could have it removed, but it would be a long, nasty process and might not work very well.


	4. Finding Somewhere to Start

Hello! Welcome back to this terrible, pain-filled story arc. So, first things first, this is another thing from the 100 Themes. Number 82, 'Can You Hear Me?' Also, fair warning, this is quite painful. Good luck!

 **Warnings** for this chapter: implied/referenced torture, aftermath of torture, and reference to attempted suicide via picking a fight.

* * *

In the end, it's about two and a half hours before Jason starts to wake up, which is later than he expected but before the nurses thought it would be. It's not surprising; Jason, like all of them, tends to not stay down as long as he probably should. The fact Jason stayed down even this long worries him a bit.

Dick's standing at the window when the heart monitor picks up a bit, and immediately he turns to take a look. It's a little uneven, but it's _different_ and that drives him over to carefully sit down at Jason's side in the foot or so of bed beside him. He watches Jason carefully, and that means that he sees the way his brother's forehead draws into a small frown, and the way his head tilts a bit.

"Jason?" he calls, quietly. "Can you hear me? You there, Little Wing?"

Jason stirs a bit more, drawing in a deeper breath, and he reaches forward and carefully pulls the oxygen mask down so it's resting beneath Jason's chin. The next breath comes out with a soft sound of pain, and then Jason's eyes very slowly drag open. They're hazy, dull, still partially lidded, and they take more than a couple seconds to actually rest on his face. Jason swallows, staring up at him with clearly uncomprehending eyes, before his mouth parts to actually speak.

"Bruce?" Jason whispers, voice hoarse and weak enough that it feels like it might just fade away again. And _god_ , the disbelieving hope in that tone is like a kick to the chest. "What're you doin' in hell?" Jason asks, and that's a second kick right in the gut.

God, Jason thinks…

"You're alive," he whispers back, fighting the urge to reach out and stroke Jason's hair away from his face because he doesn't think he can do it without hurting his brother. "Jason, it's okay, you're alive. You're in Gotham General."

Jason's gaze slides across the room, and then looks back up at him. "No, I—" Jason draws in a little bit of a sharper breath, eyes widening a touch. "It was supposed to work. It was supposed to— _Why?_ "

Did Jason try…? He tries not to react too much to that, and instead just asks, "Jason, can you tell me what happened in Arkham? Can you do that for me?"

Jason stares at him, and then breathes out, " _Dick_ ," like it's some huge revelation. Maybe to Jason, right now, it is. Then Jason gives a faint shudder. "No. No you can't—" Jason's head turns a bit, eyes squeezing shut. "You're not supposed to come back. Told you not to come back."

"Why not?" he asks gently.

Jason's not totally coherent, because if he can actually mistake Dick for Bruce then he _has_ to be pretty out of it. If he can't get Jason to answer what he wants, maybe he can at least get Jason to answer _something_. He needs to know what happened in Arkham, why Jason wouldn't tell him, how bad it was, or just _anything_. If he can get just one small piece of the puzzle maybe he can figure out the rest of it on his own.

When Jason doesn't answer, he carefully presses, "Why don't you want Dick to come back?" With any luck, the third person will help Jason answer.

Another small shudder, and then a choked answer of, " _Shame_."

His heart clenches, but before he can try and reassure Jason that there can't possibly be a reason for any kind of shame, Jason's speaking again.

"Ashamed of me. Nothing— Nothing to save. Not worth it. Broken, _ruined_ , digging under my skin with a dull blade and I can't—" Jason's heart rate picks up, eyes squeezing shut a little tighter as his voice rises. "Can't get them out. Can't— Can't _stop_ them. Doesn't matter what I do, doesn't matter; they just take and take and _take_ and there's nothing left! I— I—"

"Jason, _hush_ ," he orders, reaching up to carefully brush Jason's hair back. " _Easy_ , Little Wing. I need you to calm down for me, okay? You're hurt pretty badly."

Jason shudders again, eyes opening. His mouth opens, closes, and then he gives a choked sounding little cry and _tears_ slide down from the corners of his eyes. "Took my _skin_ ," Jason whispers, and his brother's tone has so much _agony_ that his chest tightens up again on pure instinctive reaction. "They took my _skin_ from me, Dick, and I can't— I can't fucking _look_ at it anymore. I don't know how to—" A soft sob of sound, and Jason drops his gaze. "Please, just _go_. I can't— I'm not good enough; couldn't hold so I deserve it. Not worth saving, should have _held_ —"

"Stop!" he demands, as his heart pounds in his ears and he just _stares_ down at Jason. Who _flinches_ , then almost immediately shivers and presses back into the bed like he's hoping he'll melt through it.

He squeezes his eyes shut behind the cowl, takes a deep breath in and pushes the _horror_ in his chest down so he can deal with it later. He _can't_ dwell on this right now. Jason's only going to be awake for so long and he needs answers, needs to know what happened and what his options are. The fact that _Jason_ , probably someone who could rival Bruce in terms of pure stubbornness and willpower, has been reduced down to this is not a good sign. What did they do to him?

He takes a second breath, opens his eyes, and tries to ignore how Jason is very faintly trembling. "Jason, I need you to tell me what happened. Who hurt you?" Confusion, disbelief, and he realizes the mistake a moment later and corrects the question to keep things simple. "What was it that was supposed to work, Jason? What were you trying to do?"

Jason's inhalation is shallow, voice lowered back to a weak whisper as he says, "Make it all stop."

"How?" he presses, shoving the idea that Jason tried to _get himself killed_ down with the rest of this messed up situation.

"Never left me with weapons," Jason murmurs, gaze lingering somewhere close to his shoulder. "Had to— Had to make him snap."

He practically already knows, but he still asks, "Who is 'him,' Jason?"

Sure enough, Jason swallows, shivers, and answers, "Joker," in a voice so quiet he can barely hear it.

He has to restrain the urge to clench his fists, has to _viciously_ force the fury back down his throat to sit with everything else. He can't lose control right now. No matter how much he wants to, he can't storm Arkham and repay every inch of _pain_ that Jason's suffered by seeing how much Joker can bleed before he dies. Killing isn't their way; it isn't _right_. Even ignoring that whole moral issue, Jason needs him right now. Being angry won't help, not when Jason's so clearly clinging on by just a few tiny threads. If he handles this badly, if he messes up, he could make things so much worse.

He carefully leans forward, brushing Jason's hair back behind one ear and very gently laying the other on a bruise-free section of Jason's nearer shoulder. "I'm just going to ask a couple more questions, okay? How are you feeling, Little Wing?"

Jason's gaze lingers on his arm instead of rising to meet his look. "Pain," is the first answer, coupled with a small grimace that probably only makes the bruises marring that face hurt worse. "Lots of pain. Hard to breathe. So… So tired."

"I'll let you get back to sleep in just a few minutes," he promises, stroking a soft thumb down the side of Jason's face and partially hoping his brother feels Bruce in the touch. God, what he would give to have Bruce handling all of this. To have Bruce here to _help_. "You've got some broken ribs, internal bleeding, and they haven't given you any painkillers for it because you had a lot of drugs in your system already. They don't want to risk any bad side effects."

"Deserve it," Jason murmurs, and he sucks in a startled little breath.

" _No_. Jason, god, _no_. You don't deserve any of this, Little Wing. No one does but _especially_ not you." He feels the anger threaten his control, bites down on it and gives a small, shaking laugh at the effort. "God, if I could hug you without hurting you I would, Jason. Just… Just _please_ , don't believe that any of this is your fault. You _didn't_ deserve this."

Jason still won't meet his eyes. "Killed people," he whispers, "innocents. Hurt my family, hurt kids I— I didn't even know. Damian. _Tim_. I deserve to pay for that."

"Not like _this_ ," he stresses, wanting to make Jason look at him but not able to think of a way to do it that won't cause pain. Jason doesn't answer, doesn't even really react. "Jason, you know none of us _ever_ wanted something like this. I— I'm _so sorry_. I should never have let any of this happen, I shouldn't have put you in Arkham, I shouldn't have… I just wanted to help."

"Deserved it," Jason repeats, and his words are slurring a bit, eyes drifting closed.

He carefully pulls his hand away from Jason's face, then makes sure the one on Jason's shoulder is over clear skin before he gently squeezes down on it. "Just get some rest, Little Wing. I'll be here till you fall asleep, I swear."

Jason's eyes flutter back open, and he breathes, "Dick?"

"Yeah?"

A swallow, a moment where Jason clearly tries to focus before giving up. "Just let me die," Jason says, and he can hear the plea in it.

" _No_ ," he snaps, instantly rejecting the idea. "Not _ever_ , Jason. Don't even—"

"Don't make me go back," Jason interrupts, voice barely audible and his eyes _begging_. "Let me die instead. _Please_." His eyes slide shut again, as he breathes out another faint, " _Please_."

His throat feels clogged shut, and it's all he can do to stay quiet as Jason's breath evens out and the faint trembling eases. He manages to stay careful as he slips the oxygen mask back up over Jsaon's mouth and pulls away from his side, and then crosses to the other side of the room to stand by the window again. It takes a couple more deep breaths, but he manages to reopen the line to Barbara too, once he's sure that his voice will come through fairly normal.

"Oracle?" he asks quietly, turning so he can keep an eye on Jason and make sure that he's not waking back up at the sound.

" _Yep, still here."_ Her voice is a welcome relief, and he almost speaks before she says, " _Hold on a second, let me add Red in."_ That same distinctive beep, and then she's taking control again. " _Red, I've got boy wonder on the line. You looking for status updates for everyone?"_

"Yeah," he manages, leaning against the wall.

 _Well,"_ Tim starts, " _my news is that there's nothing. I've got a couple psychiatrist reports that basically say that Jason doesn't have any real mental illnesses they can pinpoint; one report for a week he spent in solitary, apparently for attacking a guard; the files from his transfer in, which have got some big holes; and the report for today's attack, which says they found him in his own cell and don't know what happened. This is way beyond negligence; we've got at least a handful of corrupt guards, some orderlies, and maybe a nurse or two if none of what we know of got into a report."_

He scrubs his hand over his jaw in place of rubbing it over his eyes like he wants to. "Shit. What about you, Oracle?"

" _I've got my systems scanning through all the security footage from Arkham for the months Jason was there, weeding out everything he's in. It's going to take a while to get all of it, but I've previewed a couple sections. Nothing all that bad yet, but in most of this he's moving like he's hurt. I don't think it's going to be long before I find something tangible. How about you, boy wonder? Is he awake?"_

"He was. He's out again now, but I got him to answer a couple questions. It was Joker that attacked him, but…" He bites down on his tongue for a moment, has to take another second to keep his voice quiet. "He said they never left him with a weapon, so he provoked Joker into snapping so he would…" He can't quite make himself say the words, but judging by the heavy silence on the line they both understand anyway.

" _Jesus,"_ Tim finally murmurs. " _Are you… Are you sure?"_

"Yeah." He swallows, squeezes his eyes and jaw shut for a moment before he can continue. "He asked me to let him die, instead of sending him back to Arkham. I don't really know what they did to him in there but he's in _really_ bad shape. He was talking about them 'taking his skin,' how he couldn't stand looking at it, and he seems totally convinced that he deserved everything they did to him. He's not… He barely feels like Jason anymore."

There's silence, and he takes in a deep breath, tilts his head back, and tries to control himself enough to speak.

"I need to get out of here," he manages. "Red, how long will it take you to get to Gotham?"

" _Uhhh…"_ There's the metallic sound of what he'd guess is a laptop, and then a brief shuffling of paper. " _Not long, if I get Kon to fly me over. You want someone there watching him?"_

"In case he wakes back up," he confirms. "We need all the information we can get and he's the best source of it; I don't want to miss any opportunities to learn things from him. Would you—"

" _I'll do it,"_ Barbara says, with a note of steel to her voice that definitely means she's not going to be accepting any argument. " _I can do my work just as well from there as here."_

Still, he tries to say, "I'm not sure that's—"

" _Dick,"_ she snaps, and he stands to attention on pure automatic. " _Jason's badly injured and I'm more than capable of handling him. Also, on a completely practical note you should have considered, neither of you is exactly the closest friend to him. He's probably not going to talk as easily to either of you as he might to me."_

She makes a point he can't really argue, but he spends a couple moments trying to think of something to say anyway. Long enough for Tim to speak back up.

" _I'll come back to Gotham anyway. This sounds like something we want all hands on deck for, and the Titans can handle things without me or give me a call if they really do need me for something. They'll understand. So, Oracle can take over for right now, and I'll get my loose ends tied up over here and then head over in the morning. Everyone agreed?"_

" _Agreed,"_ Barbara immediately says.

He sighs, but gives in. "Agreed. I'll stick around till you get here, Oracle. See you in a few?"

" _No need,"_ she counters. " _Go ahead and leave; I'll let you know when I get there."_

Again, he can't really argue it. He grits his teeth, but closes his eyes after a moment. "Alright. Robin can finish patrol on his own, I'll head back to the Cave and get to work on the surveillance you've picked out so far, Oracle. You know the drill, guys; add in any updates to the file and we can get this figured out. Talk to you later."

He disconnects from the line, biting down on a heavy sigh. After a moment, he crosses over to the hospital bed and carefully resumes his seat on the edge of it. Jason's firmly out of it, as far as he can tell, but he reaches forward and traces his fingers over the swollen line of one cheekbone, as gently as he can manage.

"You're safe now," he promises in a whisper. "This is my fault, and I'm not going to let it happen again. I'll keep you safe, Little Wing." There's no response, but that's not surprising. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Jason's forehead. "I'm heading out, but Barbara will be here to sit with you as soon as she can. We're going to get all of this sorted out, I swear."

He draws back, gets to his feet, and then pauses to just look at Jason for a few moments. Just to cement all the bruises and the injuries in his head. This is _his fault_. Every broken bone, every bruise, every inch of pain Jason's suffered, is on his shoulders. He should have been there, or at least had the decency to listen when Jason tried to tell him things. No matter how veiled they were, he should have been able to understand. He should never have let any of this happen and the fact that he did…

He clenches his hands to fists, and whispers, "Get some sleep, Little Wing. We'll take care of you."

It's all he can manage before he leaves, slipping out the window and heading back for the Cave.

* * *

He hits the punching bag for long and hard enough that the chain holding it up breaks, and then finally feels like he's worked out enough of the anger and wild energy in his chest to sit still and do some real work.

He works through the blocks of security footage that have been flagged as having Jason in them, cutting it down to the parts that actually do and then adding notes explaining what's in them. He types 'Evidence of Injury' more times than he wants to even think about, and then adds little lists of what's visible.

Split lips, bruised knuckles, limps, or the times that Jason's favoring a side or an arm. It's more than enough to make it clear that Jason was either getting in frequent, off-camera fights, or that he was being abused in one way or another. The way the dates are spread out worries him, and he's especially worried by the fact that the injuries stop being visible after a while, at least for the most part. Instead it becomes clear in the way that Jason moves, the way he stands, the way he watches the people around him.

It's sickening to watch Jason draw in on himself as time passes in the security footage. To watch him go from anger, to pain, to wariness, and then snap back to a kind of desperate fury that has him baring teeth at everyone who gets within ten feet. It's even worse when he's clearly hazy, drugged on something or other and slow to react to anything around him. He stays in corners, stays facing the people around him and never lets them at his back. None of it seems to protect him at all.

But none of it's on camera. Not a single block Dick reviews has anyone actually _doing_ anything to Jason, apart from a bit of manhandling by the guards and that doesn't explain the kind of injuries Jason's obviously dealing with.

Maybe it's possible that whoever is doing it to him is just that good at avoiding any kind of security, and making sure none of it gets caught on film, but that seems unlikely. This is _Arkham_ ; there's barely an inch of the place that doesn't have a camera pointed at it, and for good reason. Abuse like this doesn't happen often, but there are fights, and the people in this place are, as a rule, insane. Trying to hurt other people, or hurt themselves, is too big a risk not to keep pretty much the entire facility under careful surveillance. And then there's attempted escapes by the bigger names and, well…

There's no way that every bit of Jason's abuse has been off camera. That either means that this is false footage, or that someone with access to the video deleted any evidence. That should be easy enough to pinpoint, just by looking at the dates and scanning for missing sections of time, but he holds back. Better to finish up this part of the job first, then get Barbara involved and have them both scan through and see what's missing. That'll go faster.

As the videos go on Jason gets thinner, his hair gets longer, and it's hard to tell beneath the prison uniform but he probably loses muscle definition too. It's easy to see that he's exhausted and suffering, more and more the longer that he's stuck in Arkham. It's horrifying to watch.

It's a sharp jolt out of the sickened haze he's in when there's, suddenly, a voice from behind him.

"Is that Todd?" Damian snaps, and he nearly leaps out of his skin.

He ends up slamming his knee into the bottom of the console and almost falling out of the chair before he can gather himself enough to spin the chair around to face Damian. Damian, who is already in normal clothes with damp hair that says he's showered; arms crossed and eyes narrowed in a way that says he's definitely not impressed with Dick's complete lack of awareness.

He takes in a shallow breath, rubs his hand over his eyes, and confirms it. "Yeah, that's Jason. Damian, what have I told you about sneaking up on people?"

"I did not _sneak,_ " Damian argues. "I walked and you were so involved in your voyeurism you failed to notice."

"That's— That's not the right word."

Damian gives him a _look_ like he entirely disagrees, but doesn't press the issue, which really means he's already lost. "So what is the problem? Has Todd escaped? Is that why you did not hover over me for the entirety of patrol as is usual?"

"No," he snaps, harsher than he means to and the way Damian's arms tighten and the ever-present scowl deepens means it's _absolutely_ been taken personally. "No," he repeats, gentler. "Jason was attacked, he's in Gotham General. That's where I was; he's in bad shape and we needed to talk to him to see what had happened as soon as he woke up. Barbara's there now, and Tim's flying back here in the morning."

Damian's mouth curls in a faint sneer. "Why? Let Todd heal enough to survive and transfer him back. If he cannot handle one attack inside Arkham—"

"Damian, enough. It's more complicated than that." He glances back up at the screen, and belatedly remembers to actually pause the video. "It looks like Jason's been getting abused by someone in Arkham, or a lot of people, pretty much since he was imprisoned there. At the least we've got a few dirty employees, at most…"

Damian actually looks uncomfortable for a moment, weight shifting from one foot to the other. "Impossible. Todd would never allow himself to be harmed by those so inferior to his skill. He would kill anyone who attempted to harm him."

"It's not that simple, Damian," he tries to explain. "The power dynamics in a prison are very different than the streets, and there are a lot of things that come into play. Numbers, drugs, restraints, exhaustion, starvation or dehydration… That's not even getting into the politics of a place like that. Someone got away with hurting him, frequently. Either they weren't alone, he was at a big disadvantage, or he couldn't fight back for some reason. Or all of the above."

The silence, and the lingering hint of discomfort in Damian's expression, says everything he needs to know about their youngest Robin's feelings on the matter.

He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and one that doesn't betray how bone-tired and freaked out he is, before turning the chair half back to the screens. "I've been combing through footage, but I haven't found anything that's actual proof yet. He's got injuries, obvious and hidden, but I can't find any of the actual encounters. I think someone deleted the sections that show it, but I won't know for sure till one of us starts up a scan to check for missing blocks of time. I was going to call Barbara and ask her to, as soon as I'm done looking through what we have."

Damian clicks his tongue. "Ridiculous. Let me fetch my laptop and I will start it."

The offer startles him, and he turns to look back at Damian. "You don't have to do that, Dami. You should go upstairs, get some sleep, or—"

"Cease your inane suggestions, Grayson," Damian says, with another sneer. "The sooner this is done the sooner Drake will leave my city, and the sooner I can stop thinking about _Todd_ of all people. Go back to your footage, and I will start checking for missing time in the records."

He smiles, softer and more real this time. "Thank you, Damian."

"Not necessary," is the immediate refusal. "You _could_ make this easier by finding me likely places to look for what is missing; such as where there is fresh injury but no explanation."

The suggestion is so stunningly simple that he has to blame the fact he didn't think of it on all the stress.

"Yeah, yeah I'll find you somewhere to start."


End file.
